Sleepwalking
by true-elven
Summary: AU. In Book 5, Harry passes out during his OWLs. What if he never woke up - what if he was put under a spell and dreamed that Sirius and Dumbledore died, that he defeated Voldemort? This is the story of Harry coming back from his dream to face reality.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One:

An Enchanted Sleep

Blowing a tired sigh between dry lips, Hermione Granger unfolded her long legs from beneath her, wiggling her toes to wake them up. Every muscle in her body felt stiff from disuse. For the past three and a half months, she had spent at least nine hours a day curled up in a hard-backed chair at the bedside of her best friend, Harry Potter.

Outside, summer bloomed through the streets of London. Birds sang in the tops of green trees; gentle breezes swayed the tall grass; children played in the park across the street from Grimmauld Place. From behind a grimy window pane in a third-storey bedroom inside the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, Hermione, untouched by the sun's bright warmth, had watched the weeks slip past. Mrs. Weasley had stayed after her to go out for a bit of air during the first month, but after that, she – along with all of the other Order members, most persistently Professor McGonagall – had resigned herself to Hermione's presence in Harry's sickroom.

The only other person who had been as faithful as Hermione in keeping vigil was Ron. Early on, they had worked out a schedule: Hermione took the day-shift, Ron the nights. She had protested this arrangement; despite the secrecy of its purpose, the Order's headquarters in daylight was a bustling place, members coming and going with whispered warnings, Mrs. Weasley bustling about tending to small tasks. The house at night was another story. Its silence was overpowering, ominous. Hermione thought it unfair for Ron to suffer alone through the long, empty moonlit hours. But he had brooked no arguments, insisting that if they were to find a way to help Harry, Hermione needed her wits at their sharpest, not dulled by a sudden shift from sleeping all night to sleeping all day.

Hermione didn't necessarily agree with Ron's assessment of her abilities – she thought he was rather cleverer than he gave himself credit for, actually, as was Harry – yet she had done her utmost to live up to his expectations. Each day, she had poured through any book she could put her hands on that discussed Occlumency, Legilimency, dream spells, magical slumbers, sleeping potions, anything that might give some clue as to what had happened to Harry and how to wake him up from it. Dumbledore, Hermione had gathered from his whispered conversations with Professor Snape and Sirius in the hallways, believed the sudden, inexplicable coma Harry had fallen into during their OWLs had something to do with the connection between Harry's mind and Voldemort's. Unfortunately, no healer had been able to corroborate Dumbledore's assumption, no matter how much poking and prodding Dumbledore had subjected Harry's sleeping form to. And no book had yielded the secret, either, which Hermione, who trusted instinctively in the power of books, found even more disconcerting than Dumbledore's bafflement.

Now, watching the sun fall on another long, tedious day, Hermione fought back the urge to scream in frustration. Soon, the Hogwarts Express would depart from King's Cross. Soon, students would flood across the grounds of the old castle again, eager for the start of another term. (Or as eager as they could be, with Dolores Umbridge still securely ensconced as Headmistress.) Would Harry sleep all year long, possibly forever? Would she and Ron be forced to abandon their vigil, to return to classes with everyone else? Would Harry know they were gone; did he know they were there?

She turned from the flame-kissed sunset to study Harry once more. Every morning, as she climbed the last remaining steps to the bedroom which had become Harry's infirmary, she couldn't quash the stupid hope that when the heavy wooden door swung open, Harry would be sitting up in bed, grinning at her, his glasses resting crookedly on his nose. He appeared so peaceful. She couldn't help believing that he really was just asleep, that one good shake or loud shout would rouse him. His handsome face was serene, if a little pallid from weeks spent indoors; his breathing remained regular and steady, if a little slow, like all dreamers'. If anything, he was almost _too _still: His eyes (she remembered with absolute clarity their brilliant green color) never shifted behind their closed lids, and he never sighed, moaned, shuddered, or gave any other indication that he dreamed. Whatever spell or potion held him in its thrall, Hermione drew a small measure of relief from believing that Harry at least wasn't being tormented by nightmares from which he could not escape.

But that was cold comfort, really, when she could find no way to wake him. After Mr. Weasley had arrived at Hogwarts to take Harry home (against Headmistress Umbridge's angry protests, overruled by Cornelius Fudge himself, who seemed delighted at having a comatose Harry Potter entirely out of the picture), the Order of the Phoenix had transported Harry only once, for a matter of hours, to his aunt and uncle's house to ensure that the protective charm his mother had cast on him would hold. Otherwise, they had kept him securely guarded at Grimmauld Place, a situation that seemed unlikely to change. Hermione knew Dumbledore had every loyal mind searching for a cure. Whatever Voldemort's reasons for trapping Harry in this unnatural slumber, Hermione knew in her very bones that each passing day brought the self-proclaimed Dark Lord once step closer to victory. She shuddered to think what would happen if Voldemort rose to power again…

_There has to be a way to stop him! I just have to look harder!_

Falling heavily back into her chair, Hermione desperately picked up one of the many volumes scattered haphazardly on the floor around her, where they had been discarded, one by one, when she reluctantly declared them useless. The book she picked up now she very nearly threw down again at once: Faery Tales. Luna Lovegood of all people had sent the book to her a few weeks ago, after Hermione had sent her an owl – she kept all of the DA members informed of Harry's condition, since the _Daily Prophet _was reporting that The Boy Who Lived had finally gone completely mad and was being hidden from the world by a humiliated Dumbledore – exclaiming her frustration with the books Professor McGonagall had brought her from the Hogwarts library. With her confidence in books waning, Hermione had actually cracked open the odd volume once she had read Luna's letter. Unlike Luna, Hermione didn't necessarily believe that nargils (whatever those were) could be responsible for such trances, but her spine had tingled a bit as she recalled how many fairytales did include someone being put in an enchanted sleep.

The Faery Tales, it turned out, was a collection of old, supposedly truth-based legends warning of how evil magic could go wrong. Sure enough, in one of the stories, which Hermione remembered from her Muggle childhood as a Brothers Grimm tale called _Briar Rose_, a lovely young witch had been unwittingly thrown into a deep, endless sleep by her mother, who had wished for the girl to be protected from old age or injury without realizing that she was inadvertently casting a charm over her daughter. The magic in the Faery Tales reminded Hermione of the magic that protected Harry, the magic contained in his mother's sacrifice of her life for his: It didn't need potions or incantations or even wands to work; it was a magic of the flesh, of the blood.

That notion had made Hermione decidedly uncomfortable. She loved being a witch; she couldn't imagine going back to her old Muggle life now. Yet she couldn't deny that sometimes, when everyone around her was going on about the "pure bloods" and the "mud bloods," a tiny part of her wondered what it was about "blood" that made magic work. Why did neither of her parents possess magical abilities, but she did? Why did Harry's mother, when no one else in her family did? At Hogwarts, it was easy to forget in the midst of her lessons that magic was about something more than a cleverly-worded spell or appropriate wand-work. Magic was literally in some people's blood, which meant that magic worked in ways Hermione's books couldn't fully explain.

What this book, the Faery Tales, did tell her was that the mother's unwitting curse was broken when the girl's lover kissed her on the lips, breathing (the book said) life itself back into her. Hermione stirred in her chair, glancing at Harry over the top of the page. She wondered – could this be some kind of ancient magic Voldemort had discovered, something not so unlike the magic Briar Rose's mother had accidentally performed on her daughter? If it was, could a kiss awaken Harry?

_Wasn't it worth a try?_

Casting her gaze hastily toward the door, through which she expected Ron to enter at any moment, Hermione dropped the borrowed book back onto the floor amidst the others. Her heart was pounding. She told herself it was only because she wanted this to work so very badly, but deep down, she knew that wasn't the only reason. Hadn't she thought about this before, when she was bathing Harry's forehead with a cool rag, or when she touched his hand to tell him good night? Hadn't she sometimes felt the strongest temptation to brush her lips against his, to see if he would stir? Maybe even just to see what it would feel like to kiss him, something she would never have found the courage to do had he been awake?

Hermione hesitated at the bedside, torn between an almost undeniable urge to test her theory – more than anything, she wanted Harry to wake up – and a terrible, overwhelming shyness. She studied Harry's long, dark lashes, resting neatly on his pale cheek. She felt her face heat up with a blush as her eyes traveled across his lips, parted slightly, down to his broad chest, rising and falling with the slow rhythm of his breaths.

If Ron walked in on her kissing their unconscious friend, she was certain she would die of embarrassment.

But Ron appeared to be running late this evening. Outside the closed bedroom door, Hermione heard no tell-tale creaking stairs, although the sun had dipped below the horizon several minutes ago. So, summoning her will, Hermione closed her eyes, brought her face near to Harry's, and breathed against his lips:

"Wake up, Harry. Wake up and come back to us. Please."

And then she kissed him.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two:

In Dreams

"_Wake up, Harry. Wake up and come back to us. Please."_

Startled, Harry Potter turned back toward the Hogwarts Express on Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters, his fingers loosening their grip on his wife's as he did. Why in the world, he wondered, momentarily bewildered, would Hermione be calling for him to wake up when he had only just spoken to her…

But Harry's musing ended abruptly as he realized that he was suddenly, completely alone in the train station.

The scarlet steam engine had vanished, without so much as a fading whistle or puff of smoke. The bustling crowd of departing parents and younger siblings had gone, too. And his wife – Harry swung around to find himself facing a solid brick wall, even as he realized that he couldn't quite put his finger on why he was here, in King's Cross, or who he was supposed to be with.

A fleeting glimpse across his mind's eye of two dark-haired little boys and a green-eyed little girl. Then – nothing.

Blankness.

Panic rose in Harry's chest, tightening his throat. Why was he here, in London? Why was he all alone? Had he somehow accidentally transported himself outside of Hogwarts? But no, that wasn't possible. Hadn't Hermione told him once that no one could Apparate or Disapparate into or outside of Hogwarts?

_Hermione. Why did I hear her calling to me? Where is she?_

Turning in a slow circle, his breathing constricted by fear that bordered on out-and-out hysteria, Harry instinctively slipped his hand into the pocket of his trousers in search of his wand. When his fingers closed on empty air, he fell back into the brick wall behind him, feeling cornered although he appeared to be the only living soul on the platform.

Alone and defenseless. What would Dumbledore think of him now? Or Sirius?

A searing pain shot through Harry's lightning-shaped scar. Eyes watering, he immediately pressed his palm against his forehead. He glanced around in terror, expecting Voldemort himself to materialize out of the bright, empty silence. As the pain subsided, another feeling took its place: grief, inexplicable grief. But why would thinking of Hogwarts' former Headmaster and his godfather cause him so much sadness?

Before Harry could answer those questions, a voice broke the stillness.

"It's all going to be different when you go back, you know."

Hardly able to believe his eyes, and certainly not willing to trust his ears, Harry gaped in open-mouthed disbelief as Cedric Diggory swaggered coolly across the platform toward him. He looked astonishingly different from the last time Harry had seen him: No longer cold and gray, Cedric was vibrant, his skin flushed with ruddy good health, his eyes sparkling and kind. He looked even more alive than he had when he _was _alive.

"How…? How did you…?" Harry sputtered.

Cedric stopped a few paces away, spinning once like a model on a catwalk for Harry to take in the full effect of his tall, athletic presence. He wore golden robes that reminded Harry of pure sunlight as they rippled around his broad shoulders.

"How did I get here?" Cedric supplied, to which Harry nodded mutely. "I can't explain all that to you, I'm afraid. I s'pose it'd be most accurate to say neither of us are really _here_, since 'here' is really your mind. But I guess that means I'm as real as you are, then, doesn't it?" A playful grin tugged up the corner of Cedric's mouth.

"My-my mind?" Harry shook his head slightly, as if bouncing his brain against his skull would help him understand what Cedric meant by saying they were in his _mind_. "Like, a dream?"

Cedric shrugged. "Most dreams don't last twelve weeks, Harry."

Seeing that Harry was about to protest again, Cedric held up his hand for silence. "Just think for a second. Clear your mind and really think. What were you doing before I showed up? Who were you with?"

Closing his eyes, Harry tried his best to calm his racing heart, to control his floundering thoughts. He wondered if this was how someone with amnesia felt, because his memories seemed vague and flimsy, like a bubble floating on the wind. If he focused, though, if he really bent his will toward remembering, he could hear again the noise of the crowd, two young boys arguing, a little girl crying because she couldn't get on the train –

"My family!" Harry's eyes popped open. The moment his concentration snapped, however, the vision and its immediacy faded, leaving him bewildered again. He searched Cedric's sympathetic face, wishing someone, anyone, would give him the answer to the riddle he seemed trapped in.

"I had a family, I think. I was here with…But that doesn't make any sense. I don't – I can't remember growing up…"

"That's because you haven't." Taking Harry by the shoulders, Cedric turned him to face a long row of black windows that Harry knew did not really exist on Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters. In the dark surface, he saw his own face reflected – a young face, a teenager's face, not the face he dimly recalled being much older the last time he had looked.

"When you go back," Cedric explained again, standing behind Harry, their eyes locked in the glassy surface, "everything is going to be different. You won't remember a lot of what's happened to you here, but you will remember what you need to know, when you need to know it."

Harry shivered. He was cold all over suddenly, deathly cold. "So I have been dreaming?"

"You were put into a trance." Cedric's hands dropped away as he stepped back. Harry turned to face him. "What you've seen is one possible future, Harry, a future that could have happened if you had done what Voldemort wanted you to do – if you had gone to the Department of Mysteries to retrieve the prophecy for him…"

_Voldemort – Department of Mysteries – _

_Sirius, Sirius falling, Death Eaters…!_

The flash memory of losing his godfather forever left Harry momentarily breathless. Falling back another step, Cedric went on, nodding to show that he understood what had caused Harry's stricken expression. "That's right, you've seen what you could lose. And you could still lose it, Harry. Trust me, this isn't a weapon Voldemort wanted you to have. It wasn't something he thought would happen when he recognized the connection between your minds – that he might be awakening in you powers he doesn't have. Powers that will help you defeat him."

A hot, vengeful gleam sparked in Cedric's eyes, and for the first time, it occurred to Harry that he was speaking to a ghost. Still shivering violently, he held out a hand to stop Cedric from moving further away; he had a terrible, overwhelming fear of being left alone again in this odd place-that-was-no-place.

"Wait," Harry pleaded. "I don't understand. What powers do I have?"

"Didn't I just say?" Cedric seemed to be losing substance as he paced backwards one slow step at a time. The sunlight slanting across the platform shone through him now, like it did with the Hogwarts ghosts. "You've seen the future, Harry. The future as it could have been. And in seeing the future, you've also seen the past. Things will be different when you go back, but when you need to, you'll remember – and when you need to, you'll be able to see again, when the future changes…"

A light mist had seeped onto the platform without Harry noticing. Now, the fog swirled between him and Cedric; it seemed to carry with it a high-pitched static that drowned out the last of Cedric's words. Try as he might, Harry couldn't fight his way through the clinging gossamer sheets. He rushed forward, hands outstretched for Cedric, choking and gasping as his lungs clogged and his eyes burned. The fog was smoke, he thought wildly, and soon he wouldn't be able to breathe at all. On the verge of collapse, he lunged desperately toward the last place he had seen Cedric, only to find himself falling through the air toward nothingness…

"Harry!"

Hermione's breathy gasp greeted Harry as his eyes blinked open. For a heartbeat, he recalled the smoky haze that had surrounded him, choking off his air. He reached out instinctively to clutch Hermione's arms, desperate for proof that she, unlike Cedric, was real.

"You're awake! Oh, Harry!" Hermione pressed her tear-damp cheek to Harry's, reassuring him that she was no apparition. He leaned into her awkwardly, too weak to raise his arms, trying to find his voice – his throat was painfully dry – to ask where he was and what had happened.

A curse from the doorway brought Hermione around. "He's awake," Ron cried. Without his glasses, Harry could only make out a blurry, red-haired form rushing to his side. "Hermione, how - ?"

"Oh, never mind that now, just go tell Sirius! And Dumbledore!" Hermione shouted.

Ron's form retreated toward the door. Sounding nigh hysterical, Hermione pulled back slightly so she could gaze into Harry's face. Her voice wavered with emotion. "I can't believe – Oh, Harry, are you all right? You haven't spoken."

Her elation instantly shifted to alarm. "Harry, do you know who I am? Do you know who you are?"

"Water," Harry managed to croak. "And glasses."

"Of course!" Hermione leapt to her feet, hurried across the room, and returned in moments with a cup of cold water and Harry's glasses. Settling the latter onto his face so he wouldn't slosh the liquid down his front, Harry drank greedily, his parched lips almost sticking to the rim of the cup. Hermione hovered at his bedside, watching him fearfully, as if she expected him to collapse at any moment.

"Do you…Do you remember…anything?" she inquired, rather shyly, Harry thought.

He shook his head. His thoughts and memories were still too jumbled for him to determine what had been a dream – had he really spoken to Cedric Diggory? – and what had actually happened. Instead of trying to answer, he posed a question of his own: "How long have I been asleep?"

"Almost – almost three months."

Twelve weeks, Cedric had said. Handing the cup back to Hermione, Harry wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He glanced down at himself: He was lying in a large, unfamiliar bed with clean sheets pulled up to his waist; beneath that, he appeared to be wearing his pajamas. He tucked the blanket more firmly into place, cheeks pinking.

At that moment, the bedroom door burst open once more and a flock of familiar faces poured into the room: Mrs. Weasley, her eyes brimming with tears; Mr. Weasley, flanked by Ron and Ginny; Lupin, care-worn as usual but beaming; Tonks and Mad-Eye, the former sporting carrot-orange hair and the latter glaring about in search of a malevolent explanation for Harry's recovery; and finally, like the calm center of a violent storm, Sirius and Professor Dumbledore. The crowd parted instantly for them, Hermione stepping back into Mrs. Weasley, who wrapped her arms around her from behind in a maternal embrace.

"Harry." Sirius settled onto the edge of the bed where Hermione had been sitting. He spoke softly; the tenderness in his voice recalled to Harry once more the awful, heart-stopping pain of watching his godfather – the only real family he had left – slip away into death. "You're all right? Feeling better?"

Harry nodded. At his other elbow, Dumbledore stood staring silently down at him, his expression unreadable.

Memories – or were they snatches of a dream? – flitted across Harry's mind. Something to do with…an old ring, yes, and a locket, in a cave, with a lake, and Inferi, and then Hogwarts, and Professor Snape, and –

An explosion of pain in his scar sent Harry backward onto his pillow with a howl of pain. He heard Hermione shriek and Mrs. Weasley gasp. With his eyes squeezed shut tight against the pain, Harry could only imagine the horrified reaction in the room; he could hear himself crying out and hated the cowardice of it, but it was like being burned alive from the inside out. Surely his head would split open in a moment…

The memories or dreams or whatever they were vanished amidst the pain, which ended as abruptly as it had begun. Blinking, Harry slowly brought Dumbledore's face into focus again. "I think," Harry managed, pausing to wet his dry lips with his tongue, "I think, Professor, that maybe you and I should talk – alone."

Dumbledore inclined his head toward the gathering of well-wishers. "If you would excuse us…"

Mrs. Weasley elbowed her way past Sirius to drop a kiss on Harry's forehead. "It's so good to see you awake, dear," she murmured. "We'll send up a tray with Kreacher, shall we? Some tea to fix you right up."

Harry nodded. He glanced at Hermione over Mrs. Weasley's shoulder, noting that her eyes still shone with tears. He remembered her voice calling to him in that strange, empty place his mind had created for him; his lips tingled inexplicably, and he touched them lightly with his fingertips just as his eyes met hers. To Harry's surprise, Hermione blushed a violent scarlet and rushed out of the room on Ron's heels.

But Harry had little time to ponder Hermione's odd reaction, because Sirius – who rightly judged that Harry's desire for privacy with Dumbledore didn't mean he should leave – was closing the door behind Lupin, and Dumbledore was pulling a velvet-cushioned hard-backed chair over to the edge of the bed. "Now, Harry," Sirius said gently, returning to his position at his godson's side, "why don't you tell us what you remember?"

Shifting in the bed so he was facing Dumbledore, Harry asked the only question he knew would resolve his own doubts about his sanity. "Professor, the weapon – the thing Voldemort is after that he didn't have before – is it a prophecy made about me? That explains why he tried to kill me when I was a baby?"

Sirius sucked in his breath. "I didn't tell him," he protested, seeing Dumbledore's glower. "I swear, I wanted to, but I never told him."

Dumbledore turned his attention back to Harry. "How do you know this?"

"The same way I know what the prophecy says, and that you were there when it was made," Harry answered simply. His heart was hammering again, but this time not from fear – from excitement, because he was certain that Cedric Diggory's ghost was right, that Harry now possessed a weapon Voldemort couldn't hope to defeat.

"I know it, because I've seen the future."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three:

Same as Always

For two days, Hermione was not allowed inside Harry's room. At first, this didn't bother her. After the initial exuberance over Harry's sudden recovery wore off, Hermione had promptly collapsed in the room she shared with Ginny, one floor above Harry's, and had remained in a coma-like sleep of her own for nearly fourteen hours, the result of three months' restless nights. Once awake, she had been so frightened that someone would press her about what had happened to wake Harry up – not to mention so guilty that she might be endangering them all by not owning up to her fairytale fantasy, in case that would give Dumbledore some clue about Voldemort's master plan – that the next half-day had passed in a haze of questions and celebrations.

By the end of the second day, though, when Dumbledore and Sirius at last emerged from Harry's room, closeted themselves away with Mad-Eye, Tonks, Lupin, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hermione fully expected Harry to call for her and Ron. Instead, he summoned Snape of all people (using Mr. Weasley as his messenger), and for the next six hours, Hermione, Ginny and Ron had paced the floor of what had once been Ron and Harry's room at Grimmauld Place, wondering what could possibly motivate Harry to spend so much time with their detested Potions professor. Occlumency, that was Hermione's answer; Dumbledore must have ordered Snape to help Harry protect his mind against Voldemort.

But no answers came that day. Hermione helped Mrs. Weasley prepare supper and clean up. The Order of the Phoenix whispered at one end of the table while Hermione, Ron and Ginny quietly speculated at their end. By bedtime, Hermione was beginning to fume.

Sure, she was only sixteen. Sure, she wasn't officially a member of the Order of the Phoenix. Sure, she hadn't owned up to being the reason Harry was now awake. Nevertheless, she had proven her loyalty to her best friend and to the Order not just this summer but time and time again since her first year at Hogwarts. Why was she being cast aside, kept out of the loop?

_Or did Harry not want to see her?_

Ron took their exclusion even harder than Hermione. On the third day, they camped out across the hall from Harry's room, in a large, darkly-curtained space that might once have been a dining room but was now musty and moldy like every other room in the Black mansion. "Bloody well think he might want to see _us_," Ron muttered darkly to Hermione when Lupin, rather puffy-eyed, emerged from Harry's sickroom.

"And so he does," Mr. Weasley said from behind them, causing Hermione to jump so high she stepped on Crookshanks' tail. The cat howled off down the hallway. "Go on in, you two."

Hermione hoped Ron and his dad attributed her suddenly-flaming cheeks to excitement about seeing Harry. Her legs trembled numbly beneath her as she moved toward the room that had been her constant haunt for three months.

_What if he remembers? What if he accuses me…?_

Of what? Hermione pressed her cool palms to her scalding cheeks, willing herself to calm down. Of suspecting that a magic older and more powerful than even Dumbledore had considered might be behind Harry's enchanted sleep? Of doing whatever was necessary to rescue a friend? No. Her actions were more than defensible; they were admirable. It was the secret desire that had motivated those actions Hermione feared everyone – especially Harry – would suspect when they learned how she had woken him. Would everyone guess how long she had secretly wished Harry would notice _her_, while he was busy mooning over Cho Chang?

And if Harry remembered those moments before his eyes opened, her lips trembling against his, pressing hard against him for one brief second…Then he, at least, would know that her motives hadn't been purely innocent.

Yet the only expression on Harry's face when he turned from the sunlit window to greet them was happiness. "Good to have you back, mate," Ron declared, his irritation evaporating as Harry rushed toward him, looking whole and healthy as ever in old jeans and a faded Wyrd Sisters tee-shirt (a cast-off of Fred's).

"I know what you did for me."

Hermione almost fainted at Harry's words, until she realized his grin included Ron, who had most certainly not been kissing him. "Staying up with me everyday and every night," Harry went on. Ron shrugged; Hermione managed a weak smile, fearful her voice would quake if she spoke. "Thank you. Both of you."

"So tell us what's happening," Ron prompted. They settled around the room: Harry in the chair Hermione had so long occupied, Ron cross-legged at the foot of the bed, Hermione leaning against the headboard with her knees drawn up to her chest. They stayed that way for almost four hours, the sun climbing and falling, spilling over them through the grimy windows, while Harry relayed his fragmented, improbable tale.

Divination. Prophecy. Occlumency. As Harry talked, Hermione tried to focus. Staring into his emerald green eyes, letting the pleasure of having him back with them wash over her again and again, made it difficult to concentrate, though. Did it matter if the future Harry had glimpsed was real, if Voldemort, in trying to use his connection to Harry to lure the Boy Who Lived into the Department of Mysteries, had inadvertently revealed some of his deepest secrets to his arch enemy? Did it matter if the prophecy was true, that neither could live while the other survived? Did it matter if Horcruxes were the key to Voldemort's undoing, or that Harry felt certain he would recall what and where these powerful objects were as needed?

How could any of that matter when Harry was alive, well, and here with her again?

Afraid her sappy thoughts were plainly spelled out on her face, Hermione wiped her dreamy expression blank and ordered herself to stop acting like that ridiculously boy-crazy Lavender Brown. _Focus. _She needed to think here, because it had become clear to her as the afternoon wore on that Harry had no theories about what had caused his long sleep, nor did he seem particularly worried about it. Yet to Hermione, that was the biggest question of all. It seemed dangerous to ascribe so much truth to what Harry had dreamed until they could figure out who might have been directing those dreams; to her, the possibility that Voldemort might have wanted Harry sidelined this summer, that he might have wanted unfettered access to his enemy's mind, was just as likely as Harry suddenly becoming a Seer.

She knew what she had to do. Even though she could hardly stand the humiliation of it, thought she would rather endure a full Body-Bind curse than speak the truth, Hermione was willing to suffer just about anything to protect her friends, Harry most of all.

Drawing up a fair amount of courage along with a deep breath, Hermione broke across Ron's excited commentary on leaving school to fight Death Eaters with a sudden: "I kissed you, Harry."

A moment of stunned silence descended, into which Harry finally managed to ask, "When?" at the same time that Ron demanded, "Why?"

Cheeks blazing, Hermione hurried to explain. "To wake you up. I mean, _when _you woke up."

Ron was determinedly staring at a hole in the carpet at his feet. At first, Harry seemed unable to look her in the face, either, but as she related how the idea of waking him with a kiss had come to her from a fairytale, a look of supreme satisfaction replaced his embarrassed grin. Finally, having run out of words, Hermione ended desperately, "I just couldn't think of what else to do, Harry, we'd tried everything, and it seemed wrong not to-to try…"

"But don't you see? Of course that was the answer." Harry leapt to his feet and began pacing in front of the bed. Accustomed to seeing him prone, Hermione felt a little dizzy watching him move so nimbly, like he'd been practicing Quidditch instead of lying abed for three months. "In my dream, you found the Hallows in the _Tales of Beedle the Bard_, Hermione. Maybe my subconscious was working out the answer along with you, like…like…"

"ESP?" Hermione supplied. When Ron looked baffled, she offered, "That's a Muggle term for reading someone's mind."

"Muggles can read minds?"

"Some think they can," Hermione started.

Harry waved Hermione's explanations off impatiently, his concern obviously elsewhere. "This might be something, Hermione. It might tell us what went wrong when Voldemort tried to make me see Sirius at the Ministry – how I got inside his head, too. Voldemort doesn't respect the old magic, like what house-elves can do – "

Slightly alarmed by Harry's manic tone, Hermione interrupted, "I don't know, Harry. How could Voldemort have accidentally put you into an enchanted sleep? In the story, it was Briar Rose's mother, trying to protect her, not someone trying to control her mind."

"Yeah, but that's not always the story," Ron challenged. His cheeks were still a little pink from Hermione's announcement, and he still seemed rather fascinated by the carpet, but he chanced a glance in her direction that gave Hermione hope they might all get back to normal someday soon. "In some stories it's a curse the girl's wicked stepmother puts on her. Or something like that, anyway."

Harry was now staring frankly at Hermione, an odd smile playing on his lips. She blushed again under his gaze, expecting him to call her out on her crush, but his thoughts were far from her own.

"You think it was just a dream."

Feeling rather traitorous, like she was reporting Harry's anonymously-gifted Firebolt to McGonagall all over again, Hermione countered, "Haven't you even thought about it, Harry? How can you be sure you haven't seen exactly what You-Know-Who wanted you to see? Or-or maybe you didn't see anything real at all?"

"Nice way of saying he might be mental, Hermione," Ron muttered.

For his part, however, Harry appeared unoffended. "I've checked out some of what I remember with Professor Dumbledore and Snape. There's things I know I couldn't know if some of what I saw wasn't real. But you're right," he admitted, his steps slowly coming to a halt as he reached the bedroom door. "There's really only one way to know if what I saw about Voldemort's weakness is true."

Listening to Harry, hearing the steely edge in his voice, it occurred to Hermione that she had been foolish not to expect this. Harry would not awake from his trance with any sort of fear for his own life, or any greater interest in saving himself than he had ever shown; of course his first objective would be to test his new theory of how to defeat Voldemort, without regard for the peril he was rushing headlong toward.

Wasn't that the Harry she so admired? Hermione recalled a board of life-sized wizard's chess and a much younger Harry looking to her for encouragement, believing her so much more gifted than he. She had told him that night what she knew to be even truer now: Harry was a great wizard. She loved his bravery, his unswerving dedication to fighting a wizard nearly everyone else in their world feared to name. She wouldn't want him any other way, not really.

But that didn't mean a part of her wasn't dying to protect him.

No way of arguing Harry out of his decision came to her, though – at least not one that wouldn't involve more fierce blushing and awkward silences. So she said nothing of her feelings as Harry opened the door, inclining his head to invite her and Ron to join him. Without hesitation, they both stepped forward.

_Where you go, I go. Forever. _

"Where to?" Ron asked, sounding a bit concerned that they might be off to meet Voldemort himself.

Harry's answer startled even Hermione, who thought she was ready for anything.

"We need to see Kreacher."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four:

Proof

Harry wasn't entirely sure why he had waited so long to find out if Kreacher really did possess the locket he remembered Regulus Black bequeathing to the house-elf before Sirius' long-lost younger brother had headed off to face his death at the hands of his former master, Voldemort. He suspected Hermione's revelation had something to do with his decision – not because he doubted his dream (quite the contrary, Harry was now more certain than ever) but because her pronouncement that she had woken him with a kiss had given Harry a sudden need for action.

The details of his journey into the future had faded from Harry's mind the moment his eyes had opened. He recalled Cedric Diggory's ghostly visit with the most clarity. Like a fevered nightmare, though, snatches and snippets of that peculiar mental voyage kept flitting across Harry's mind, sometimes more of an impression or an instinct than an actual memory. The moment Hermione had revealed how she had woken him, Harry had seen the color rise in Ron's cheeks, and an image of Ron storming out of a tent into a bitterly cold night had blazed in front of Harry's eyes.

Ron had left him once, walked away from their friendship and their mission once, because he believed Hermione had chosen Harry over him. A sudden terror had awoken in Harry's heart at that instant, the terror that he might still lose one of his best friends in just the same way.

Everything would be different when he came back, Cedric had promised, and Harry couldn't deny that for the most part, that was true. But some things…Well, some things had been building for five years, and some things seemed poised to take a different direction – with the same consequences. If it came down to a choice, Harry wondered, what would he do? Protect his friendship or follow his heart?

Keenly aware of Ron and Hermione close on his heels as they had descended the steps to Kreacher's lair in the kitchen, Harry had chided himself for entertaining such thoughts. _She kissed you to wake you up, nothing more. Stop worrying about problems you don't have and focus on the ones you do._

Like convincing Kreacher to hand over the locket.

Sirius could have ordered Kreacher to do so, of course, yet Harry had resisted that course of action for two reasons. One, he wanted to spare his godfather the pain of believing his Death Eater brother had been a hero in the unlikely event that Harry's dream turned out to be just that. Two, and more importantly, Harry's instincts had told him that in one possible future Kreacher was his ally, a being worthy of respect and friendship, and that if he, Harry, could approach the elf in the right way, Kreacher might still realize that future.

So, when they had reached the kitchen, Harry had flashed a quick smile at Mrs. Weasley, who had nodded in response but hadn't questioned why he was leading Ron and Hermione into the small room where Kreacher slept on a pile of filthy rags. Even now, with the proof that he was indeed a Seer lying beside him on the windowsill of the room where he had been entranced for twelve weeks, it still struck Harry as a little odd how everyone had treated him since he woke up. It was like everyone, even the nearly omnipotent (to Harry, anyway) Dumbledore, understood that Harry knew exactly what to do. His impression from the snatches of dream he could recall was that adults had been much less willing to give him free reign before he became a Seer.

Fighting back a grin, Harry had mused that maybe this seeing the future thing was going to pay off in ways he hadn't even expected.

Securing the proof of Voldemort's weakness for the Order (and, if Harry were completely honest with himself, more importantly for Hermione) had required several hours of careful cajoling to bring Kreacher out of his sour shell. Slowly, degree by degree, Harry had managed to wheedle the story from Kreacher, the one Harry remembered from his dream – the story, ultimately, of Regulus Black's self-sacrifice. Harry didn't know what made him happier: having definitive proof that his prophetic powers were real or being able to relay to Sirius that his little brother had redeemed himself in the end.

And, in a happy departure Harry's dream, Kreacher had still possessed the locket. He had produced it from a small cedar box wedged beneath a loose floorboard underneath his cot. Harry, Ron and Hermione had waited patiently for Kreacher to work himself up to handing the locket over; that had been the most delicate moment, Harry knew, and he hadn't dared reach for the gold chain until Kreacher had pressed it into his palm. He understood that he had only earned such trust from Kreacher by expressing admiration for "Master Regulus'" heroism, but Harry counted it a victory nonetheless that in five hours' time he had gained so much ground with the angry little elf.

"You will take care of this for Kreacher now?" The elf had looked hopefully up into Harry's eyes. Still lingering in the doorway, Hermione had made a funny sound between a sob and a gasp; Harry hadn't needed to turn around to know she was beaming at him for the kindness he had shown Kreacher.

He hadn't dared to turn around, actually, because he'd feared the light of that smile might make him forget Kreacher entirely, and Harry had wanted to be sure their interview ended on just the right tone.

Odd, how distracting Hermione had suddenly become. It was thoughts of Hermione, actually, that were keeping Harry awake now, despite his utter exhaustion. Explaining everything to Ron and Hermione, convincing Kreacher to hand over the locket, and finally calling together Dumbledore, Sirius, Snape, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and the other members of the Order to display the Horcrux had bested Harry's gradually-returning strength. Almost an hour ago, when he had at last climbed the stairs to his room, Harry had been thinking only of sleep, yet the instant the door had closed behind him, his mind had turned in a different direction entirely.

To hazel eyes peering over the top of a book and honey-colored hair tucked neatly behind a small, sweetly-curved ear and a light, warm smile pulling up lips that had, even if Harry couldn't remember it, recently been pressed to his…

A creaking stair outside his bedroom door jarred Harry from his reverie. Cheeks a little pink and breathing slightly rough, Harry turned, waiting for a knock that didn't come. Curiosity got the better of caution; dropping the locket into his jean pocket, Harry padded silently down the steps to the kitchen in search of whatever other sleepless soul was prowling the house so late.

To his surprise, when he rounded the corner he discovered Hermione standing beside the hearth, her back to him.

"Hermione?" A tendril of fear curled around Harry's heart. He couldn't imagine anything good bringing Hermione downstairs at this time of night – practically morning, in fact. "Are you all right?"

"Harry!" Hermione jumped, one hand pressed over her heart, obviously startled by his sudden appearance. "You scared me."

"I'm sorry." They had each started forward and now stopped a few feet apart in the empty, quiet kitchen. Harry wondered if Hermione was also aware of how absolutely alone they were, a rarity inside the bustling headquarters, especially with Ron around.

_Ron. _Warning bells sounded inside Harry's mind. No matter how tempting Hermione looked standing there in a rose-pink robe, slender legs bare from knee to ankle, he had to remember the complications of following his heart. Hadn't he already seen what Hermione's loyalty could cost him – his friendship with Ron, the closest thing to a brother Harry would ever have?

_Everything will be different. _Or, Harry reflected darkly, maybe some things would never change. Some things might always be unreachable.

"I couldn't sleep. I-I guess I'm a little scared." Hermione took a tentative step forward, her dark eyes wide in the dim moonlight streaming in from the grime-coated foyer windows behind Harry. "What we talked about, with Dumbledore. About, you know, not going back to Hogwarts – going after Voldemort so openly – I'm not, I mean, I want to go. It's just that it's all happening so fast…"

In spite of himself, Harry found he couldn't resist reaching out to catch Hermione's fingers in his. "We'll be all right."

Her words struck a chord with Harry, though, bringing up uncomfortable reservations even as he couldn't help noticing how Hermione's eyes lingered ever-so-fleetingly on his mouth. While his foray into the future had faded once his eyes had opened, Harry distinctly recalled that Hermione and Ron had accompanied him on his quest to destroy Voldemort once and for all, and although he couldn't conjure up the details, a deep-seeded unease told him that they had done so at great risk to their own lives. Perhaps, he thought now, his fingers tightening around Hermione's, perhaps they had even died fighting _his _battles…

Hermione must have seen the hesitation in Harry's expression, because suddenly, the fear in her eyes was replaced by the steely determination Harry associated with refusals to let Ron copy her Potions homework. "Don't even think it," she said firmly, biting off each word with immovable force. "You're going to do this thing, Harry, and I'm going with you, whether you like it or not."

Harry's heart jumped a tiny leap of joy in his chest. _I'm going with you, not "we're" going with you? She's not thinking about Ron, she's thinking about me._

His mouth suddenly so dry it felt stuffed with cotton, Harry cleared his throat. The silence, the emptiness, of the kitchen had become oppressive again, reminding him that all that separated him from Hermione's warm, lithe body was a few scraps of clothing – his jeans and tee-shirt, her thin cotton robe. The smoky hue in her gaze told him her thoughts were not far from his, either.

Maybe she'd had other reasons for kissing him after all. Maybe the fairytale had been an excuse. Maybe he could do what he was doing now, tug her a teensy bit closer, lower his head toward hers, watch her tilt her chin toward him just so. Maybe waking up to a whole new world could mean something more than fulfilling his destiny to rid the world of Voldemort.

"Harry," Hermione breathed, in the second's space before their lips met, and sparks exploded behind Harry's closed eyelids.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five:

A New Day

The next morning, Hermione pretended to be asleep while Ginny padded around the room getting dressed. Once the door closed behind her roommate, however, Hermione rolled onto her back, kicked her legs in the air, and mimed a silent squeal of joy toward the age-yellowed ceiling.

Harry had kissed her. And kissed her. And kissed her.

Hermione's fingers drifted to her lips, which felt permanently frosted from spending so much time pressed to Harry's. Unable to suppress her giddiness, she flattened her palm over her mouth to stifle a sudden fit of giggles. Oh, this was not like her _at all – _giggling, daydreaming, sighing happily. It was like some other girl had taken over her body.

At the moment, though, Hermione was finding it difficult to care. Because every time the stern little voice in the back of her brain ordered her to _get it together since they were all facing some bloody well terrifying evil_, the oh-so-not-Hermione voice that seemed to have appeared in her mind overnight would start shouting again that Harry had kissed her.

And kissed her.

And kissed her.

Letting her eyelids drift shut, Hermione gave herself over to dreamy memories. To her, Harry's kiss had been totally unexpected: One minute she had been bordering on hysterical fear as she contemplated the task Dumbledore had solemnly appointed Harry – and by extension, whether anyone else liked it or not, Hermione and Ron – and the next, she had been swimming into a pair of lovely, emerald-green eyes. They had kissed shyly at first, soft and uncertain, lips barely meeting before parting, until suddenly, Harry had clasped her waist with both hands (she could still feel the heat of his palms burning through her thin robe and cotton nightshirt) and pulled her firmly to him, his mouth covering hers in a much deeper, much more passionate kiss than any Hermione had experienced up to that point.

She wasn't entirely certain how long the kissing had gone on. Time had virtually stood still for her; she might as well have been trapped in an enchanted sleep of her own. Fingers tangled in Harry's messy dark hair, lips tingling from the pressure of his, she had gone completely weak-kneed almost instantly, grateful for Harry's strong arms holding her to his chest. At some point his lips had traveled across her jaw to her earlobe and then down her neck to her collarbone, a sensation so amazing that simply thinking back on it sent delicious, ticklish shivers down her spine. She had wanted to kiss every inch of him right back, and she would have, too, if Harry hadn't reluctantly stepped back from her, his eyes as bright and feverish as her own, to suggest rather breathlessly that they slow down a bit.

Hermione blushed as she remembered the little growl that had escaped from her then. Stopping had been the last thing on her mind, though as her head had cleared a little, she had been thankful to Harry for being such a gentleman.

Like he wasn't perfect enough, she reflected, forcing her eyes open again. Turned out Harry Potter was also good old-fashioned chivalrous on top of being a knight in shining armor.

The door opened, breaking Hermione's daydreams, and Ginny peeked in. "You feeling all right?" she inquired, a natural question since Hermione was hardly one to lie abed half the morning – she usually beat everyone besides Mrs. Weasley downstairs for breakfast. "I heard you get up in the night. Were you sick?"

Hermione bit her lip, considering her response. She hated lying to Ginny – to anyone, really, but particularly to Ginny, the only female friend Hermione really had. It felt like a violation of their all-but-sisters bond to not tell Ginny what had transpired in the kitchen last night.

Harry hadn't said anything about keeping secrets. Still, a niggling doubt crept into Hermione's heart, wedging itself between her over-the-moon happiness and her blooming adoration of Harry. Did kissing make them a couple? Did Harry think of her as his girlfriend now, or was she just someone to snog? Would he find her as silly and trite as she found so many of the girls at Hogwarts if she gushed to her best girl friend about what an absolutely delectable kisser he was?

Although she was bursting to share her news, Hermione's practicality got the better of her. She would wait until she saw Harry and judged his behavior for herself, she decided, while making excuses to Ginny about being kept up by worries – which, honestly, had been the reason she'd gone to the kitchen in the first place, when the little bedroom had become too crowded with her fears about the future.

Ginny accepted her explanation easily enough, and as Hermione changed into a yellow tee-shirt Tonks had once remarked brought out the golden highlights in her hair (not that she was trying to impress anyone, of course) and a white linen skirt with yellow daisies circling the hem, the two friends debated the plan the Order of the Phoenix had decided on. The plan for Harry, accompanied by Ron and Hermione, to forego returning to Hogwarts so they could uncover Voldemort's Horcruxes and, one by one, destroy them. Meanwhile, Dumbledore and the other Order members would be turning up the pressure on the Ministry to publicly acknowledge Voldemort's return; Dumbledore had plans to declare Sirius' innocence, to call in the loyalty he had earned amongst the wizarding community during his long, distinguished career in hopes that, sooner or later, the Ministry would be forced to openly declare war against Voldemort and his Death Eaters once again.

"I hate being out of the action," Ginny groused. She and Hermione were hurrying down the stairs toward the now-empty kitchen (breakfast was long over, thanks to Hermione's lie-in), and even though Hermione sympathized with Ginny's plight, she was also keeping her eyes peeled for a certain mop of unruly dark hair. "What's the D.A. going to do with Umbridge keeping tabs on us all semester?"

"Harry thinks Hogwarts is probably a hiding place for one of You-Know-Who's Horcruxes," Hermione offered. "You may end up doing more than you'd like for the Order, actually."

Jaw set in a stubborn way that reminded Hermione decidedly of Ron, Ginny tabled, "I'd do anything for the Order. I just don't see why you and Ron can go while I – "

"Because that's how I saw it."

Harry's sudden appearance in the kitchen doorway caught Hermione off-guard; she nearly dropped the carton of milk she'd just taken from the icebox. A warm flush spread from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. Had he always been so handsome? Or was he even better-looking now that his lop-sided grin was aimed directly at her, now that his gorgeous green eyes sought her out first in the room?

Even a blind person would have noted the change in the room's atmosphere as Harry came forward, his gaze trained directly on Hermione, who found herself frozen in place, hardly daring to breathe. Without so much as a flinch of hesitation, Harry dropped a quick, light kiss on Hermione's cheek. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to kiss her good morning, asked lightly, "Sleep well?"

Hermione glanced sideways at Ginny, whose open-mouthed astonishment nearly brought on another fit of giggles. "Fine," she managed, turning away to pour herself a glass of milk. She knew her cheeks were bright red, but she honestly didn't care at the moment, for Harry had just answered the most important question on her mind right then.

Apparently, a kiss was more than a kiss to him after all.

Turning back to Ginny, Harry continued like nothing out of the ordinary had just passed between him and Hermione. "Hogwarts is incredibly important in all of this, Ginny. For a long time I thought maybe it was just that way to me, because it was the first place I ever really felt at home, or because Voldemort's been so fascinated by it. But I don't think that's true. Our history, the history of wizards in Britain, it's all bound up with Hogwarts. It's a place of power. And right now," he concluded, settling down into a chair across from Hermione, "Hogwarts is in enemy hands."

Hermione shivered a bit. Reminded of the danger they were all facing, she felt some of her happy glow over this budding romance with Harry fade ever so slightly. Enemy hands. Umbridge was vicious and cruel, yes, yet thinking of her as an enemy – as in, someone she might someday face in battle – still struck Hermione as strange.

Gazing across the table at Harry while he and Ginny (who had recovered nicely from her momentary shock and, it seemed, had decided to treat Harry kissing Hermione like an everyday occurrence) debated the merits of splitting up the D.A. instead of sending them all after Voldemort's Horcruxes, Hermione reflected how unperturbed Harry seemed by all of this. It was like…

_Like he's already been to war. Like he's already lived through things going from dark and scary, like they are now, to utterly and completely nightmarish, like they're about to become…_

Those thoughts brought Hermione inevitably back to her misgivings about Harry's enchanted sleep. Finding the locket with Kreacher had washed away her doubts regarding the truth of Harry's vision; even more definitive than that proof, she had to admit that something fundamental had changed about Harry since he had awoken, something that bespoke a person operating on far more than intuition and educated guesses – Harry _knew _what he was doing, in a way even Dumbledore couldn't match. But the fact that whatever trance Harry had fallen into had allowed him to see into the future – well, Hermione didn't feel especially comforted by that, particularly since Harry had seen more than the "future." He had seen into Voldemort's past, into the would-be Dark Lord's mind, in a way that no other Seer Hermione had ever read or heard about had done.

The connection between Harry's mind and Voldemort's, the prophecy proclaiming that neither could live while the other survived, it all unsettled her deeply. And not simply because she was hopelessly infatuated with Harry, either, she realized. Because the fate of their entire world rested on the decisions Harry was making, and she couldn't escape the nagging fear that without knowing where his information came from, without understanding what had driven him into a months' long enchanted sleep to begin with, none of them could be certain that the choices he was making would ultimately lead to victory over Voldemort.

_We might be playing straight into his hands after all…_

"Hermione?" Ginny's voice brought Hermione back to the present. Something in her tone suggested it wasn't the first time she had said her friend's name. "What do you think?"

Blushing, Hermione tried to cover how far off from their conversation her mind had wandered. "About what?"

A knowing smile on her lips, Ginny explained patiently, "About Harry going to see the Centaurs to find out more about being a Seer."

Hermione nearly toppled off her chair. "But-but I thought," she began, staring at Harry in frank disbelief. "Yesterday you seemed so determined to be off after Voldemort straightaway. I thought you weren't worried about where your visions came from."

"I wasn't," Harry answered honestly. Underneath the table, his foot brushed her ankle, and even that small contact sent shivers through Hermione, whose pragmatic inner voice scolded her for being so silly and girlish when such serious matters were on the table. "But you still are, and pretty much every time I don't listen to you, I end up wishing I would've, so…"

From the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Ginny slip quietly from the room. She silently thanked her friend for allowing them some privacy. "But what about Umbridge?" she pressed. "How are you going to get back on the Hogwarts' grounds, convene a meeting with the Centaurs and then take off again, right underneath her nose? I mean, as far as the rest of the world knows, you're still in a coma."

Harry reached across the table and folded both of her hands in his. "You forget," he responded, a teasing gleam in his eyes, "that I have some pretty big connections at Hogwarts."

"Hagrid?" Hermione couldn't keep the ring of doubt out of her voice. "I don't know, Harry, I'm not sure he's the best person to…What?"

This last was prompted by the wide grin spreading across Harry's face, a grin Hermione found irresistibly contagious. "Not Hagrid. Don't be so literal, Hermione. By 'big,' I mean 'powerful.' And that would be – "

"Snape," Hermione realized, chiming in on Harry's last word. He nodded approvingly, as if pleased to see she'd worked out the puzzle for herself. While Snape certainly seemed like a better ally for undermining Umbridge than Hagrid, Hermione found her curiosity getting the better of her again; she couldn't stop herself from asking, "Why is it that you suddenly trust Snape so completely, Harry? You've always acted like he was, well, basically like he was still a Death Eater."

Harry tilted his head slightly, smiling in such an endearingly sweet fashion that Hermione went weak-kneed all over again. "And you've always said if Dumbledore trusts him, so should we," he countered. "Having second thoughts?"

"No," Hermione responded truthfully. "Just trying to figure out what's going on in that head of yours, that's all."

"I promise, sometime soon I'll let you in on all of it." Harry's voice had taken on a husky tone that did nothing to bring back the strengths to Hermione's knees. "But for right now, I'm going to have to ask you to trust me, like I'm trusting you."

Hermione shook her head, feeling dazed by all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours. "I still don't understand how we're going to ­– "

Ron's angry voice from behind her cut Hermione off mid-sentence. "I think you've both got a bit of explaining to do, about quite a lot of things, if you ask me."


End file.
